


The Last Straw

by thegraytigress



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Bromance, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 08:52:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5122271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The "boys" go out for a night of carousing in an attempt to cheer their friend from a melancholic mood. Too much ale proves to all present that Elves, indeed, become inebriated, and it is left to Faramir to get Legolas safely home. Everything seems to turn against him, and he fears his fate may be to wander the streets of Minas Tirith forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Straw

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** G
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I'm pretty sure I wrote this before the extended edition of _Return of the King_ came out, so an elf getting drunk probably doesn't agree with canon. Oh, well. Enjoy! :-)

He had never seen an Elf drunk before.

Perhaps “drunk” was too strong a term. After all, it held an ugly connotation to it, a smear that was far too crude and vulgar to apply to a creature of such refinement and elegance. He had to admit to himself, as he watched Legolas laugh loudly at some silly frivolity of Gimli’s, that even in this fairly inebriated state his friend was far from crude or vulgar. His typically pale face was flushed with merriment, and his normally piercing eyes were glazed with teary mirth. But even as such he carried about him such beauty and poise that Faramir had to wonder at the mystery of Elvish intoxication. Legolas was certainly the most graceful drunk he had ever observed.

They sat about a nicked and stained table in what could only be called a disreputable establishment. This tavern was buried in the shadows and grunge of the last district of Gondor, hidden down a back road that snaked from the Gateway like a gleeful scoundrel leading unsuspecting innocents into a world of ale and smoke. It was an old place, and it smelled of stale alcohol and sweat. The blackened floors were in need of a careful sweeping, and the tables and counters were sticky with beer spilt too long ago and left to dry. Shadows covered the walls, lurking in the corners where the lights from lanterns and candlesticks could not reach. It reeked of unpleasantness, and it was far from the clean, fresh environments of the Citadel in which he normally found himself. Were he in full control of his senses, perhaps he would have been disgusted at this dark, little hole. As it was, he found he cared little as he took another sip of his frothy ale. Tonight was no time for such concerns.

Another loud bout of laughter came from Legolas, accompanied by the deep baritone of Gimli in a shaking guffaw. Aragorn leaned forward in his chair, puffing on his pipe, his serious countenance at the moment cracked with a grand smile. Éomer was quick to add his own stupidity to his friends’, commenting on some such nonsense in Rohan many years ago. Faramir had lost track of the tale; his mind was numbed by the soothing ale and he was too tired to reason. Instead, he thoughtlessly joined in their flippancy, lifting his dripping mug of deep, red lager as Gimli toasted the evening. A fine honor indeed! They all drank to it, and Legolas laughed again, raising his melodic voice above the chatter of their group to thank them all for the opportunity. Faramir smiled in spite of himself; the Elf was so intoxicated that he had no idea into what malady he been led.

Of course, this was not to say that their intentions had been anything but noble. The last few months had been trying, to say the very least of it. A resurgence of shadow in the forests of Mirkwood had driven the Elves further north. Despite the fall of Mordor years before, the once grand and green woodland was not able to escape the choking grip of evil, it seemed, and the Elves were dwindling and weakening. The last attacks of the Orcs and spiders upon their southern borders had been the proverbial “final straw” for King Thranduil. After consulting with Lord Celeborn, with whom the powerful Elf shared the territory, Thranduil had unexpectedly decided to abandon their post. Middle Earth was no longer a place for Elves, and the Firstborn were tired of contending with evils that were apparently indestructible. Their time on this world was ending at any rate, so logic dictated that prolonging their stay with foolhardy at best and dangerous at worst. Thus, Eryn Lasgalen had emptied.

This had hit Legolas terribly. Though the stoic and strong prince sought to hide his despair well, his father’s rejection of Middle Earth was noticeably a painful blow to Legolas’ esteem. Faramir knew little of his Elf friend’s relation with his father, save that it had never been overly loving. Thranduil’s leaving put a horrific weight upon Legolas, for now the young Elf had to make a choice of his own: depart these shores with all that remained of his kin, or remain with his mortal friends and suffer the sadness of his separation from his family. Neither alternative was overly desirable, and both meant sorrow and inevitable sacrifice. Legolas’ return from his father’s fallen kingdom a few day’s earlier had marked a change in their Elven comrade. His eyes had lost a bit of their vigor, of their earthly glow. His words were heavy with unspoken melancholy. Once or twice had Faramir seen his friend turn his head in the direction of the sea. Though certainly the expansive waters were not visible from Minas Tirith and the sounds of lapping waves upon the shore could not have possibly reached the White City, Legolas had stood perfectly still, as if seeing and hearing the ocean clearly and vividly. Of the sea-longing Faramir comprehended very little, but he had spent enough time with the Elf to know beyond any doubt that his friend was miserable.

And thus the concern of Legolas’ friends had morphed and twisted into a silly scrap of a plan. Well, maybe “plan” was again the wrong word to describe it, for the term implied something of this action had been carefully decided before it had come to fruition, and the truth of it was they had simply, by some stroke of luck or good faith, found themselves thinking the same thing at the same time. A long day of diplomacy and negotiations amongst the Lords of Gondor in Lossarnach had ended with a tired parade of men and horses wearily returning to Minas Tirith. The hours of work waiting for them within the halls of the Citadel had seemed particularly disgusting and dreary, given their beaten sense of excitement and fatigued bodies. Legolas’ depression had suddenly become the perfect excuse to waste away an evening.

It had taken quite a bit of cajoling on the parts of Gimli and Éomer to convince Faramir to lay aside his duties this evening and engage in some fun. There was simply too much to be done to spend time in foolery. A pile of parchments upon his desk demanded reading and approval. The Council was breathing down his neck as it impatiently waited for proposals regarding the rebuilding of Ithilien and the expenses that grand project would entail. Furthermore, his wife was lonely, though she would not say as much. He had hardly had an occasion to see her these weeks past, and in truth he missed her as she did him. He had felt the guilty wretch for abandoning her, but in the face of Gimli’s prodding, no other option had been afforded him. The Dwarf could be quite glib with his words when the occasion required it of him.

As for how they had found this… refined establishment, Aragorn, despite his typically regal and serious demeanor, seemed to possess quite an impressive knowledge of Minas Tirith’s pubs, bars, and taverns. Faramir found this particular fact surprising and amusing, for he would have never suspected his king to frequent such places. Sometimes it was all too easy to forget that before he had been king, Aragorn had been a ranger, well-traveled and quite experienced in a world that some might considered to be quite a bit below proper society. Once there, Gimli had again put his skills of persuasion to the test as he tried to prompt a forlorn Legolas into sharing a bit of brew with him. At first the Elf had resisted, his eyes dark and his mood generally foul at this display. Clearly the Dwarf’s incessant coaxing had tried his patience, and he responded like a stubborn horse refusing to be saddled. Finally, perhaps to simply end the unrelenting torment, he had succumbed and joined the group in a drink.

That had been hours ago, and whatever reservation Legolas might have had in sharing in their merriment had drowned in glass after glass of frothy ale. Faramir had never thought it possible of an Elf to drink so much, but Legolas certainly had, and quickly no less. A man would have simply keeled over after imbibing this quantity of ale, he was sure of it. Legolas had once told him that the Elves of Mirkwood enjoyed their wine as much as the next, and their blends and brews were substantially stronger than the vintages of men. Just thinking of the amount the archer had guzzled made Faramir dizzy.

Ah, no point in it! Let him be. He needed this as much as I did! These thoughts were true enough. Decorum was gone this night, pushed aside for the sake of a much needed release. Men were not heartless, mindless machines that could endlessly work and sustain such stress.

Minutes stretched languidly to hours. They talked and drank, speaking of matters far removed from the burdens of leadership. Stories were shared of women and youthful ventures. Ale was passed about. Laughter and good times were openly offered and received. It was a warm balm to his tired heart to be among dear friends, to be free and comfortable. Here there were no ranks, no titles, no responsibilities. War bred the strongest of bonds, and between these companions there was little else besides camaraderie, affection, and devotion.

Faramir sighed and rubbed his eyes. He felt terribly woozy, and the world was shifting ever so slightly about him. He could not remember the last time he had felt so… uncontrolled. Given the mess of his thoughts, he was surprised he could remember anything at all.

“Somebody must take care of the Elf.” The rumble of a thick voice belonged to Gimli. The Dwarf was glancing around the table suspiciously, as if gauging the reactions of potential competitors. Faramir lifted his head and set his emptied mug upon the splotched surface. It took his sluggish mind a moment to realize the nature of the dilemma.

Legolas was slumped most messily in his chair. His chin was dropped against his chest, strands of mussed blond hair framing his red face. Droopy eyelids shielded the bright blue orbs. The Elf shifted, mumbled something unintelligible, and then laughed at whatever he had just said. “Take care of the El-luf. That is quite funny, Gimli! Since when have I ever needed your care?” His words were terribly slurred and his eyes twinkled in delight. “I can get… I can get back myself. It is not shofar. Shofar away… Ha ha!”

Éomer’s face fell as he licked the froth of the ale from his lips, his narrowed eyes focused upon the delirious Elf. “You are right, Master Dwarf,” admitted the young king. His mug he set to the table with a clank. “And since you were the one who so adamantly persuaded him to drink, I believe that particular joy should fall to you.”

Gimli’s face cracked in a sloppy show of anger. “Me? Why, it was your silly idea to come to this place!” shouted the Dwarf. His dark eyes lowered to his half-drunken goblet. “Besides, I have yet to finish my ale, for which I have paid. I will not waste it. The night is still young.”

Aragorn sighed, dumping the ash of his pipe to the floor. “Perhaps for you, friend Gimli, but I believe Legolas has had quite enough,” he announced in a soft voice. The king intently analyzed the wooden object as if it was intensely interesting. Then he looked up and glanced about the group. Silence came to them for a moment, each regarding the others as though at any moment the other three would conspire to set upon him this unwanted responsibility.

“You are his closest friend, Aragorn, and a healer besides. You see to him,” Éomer demanded, leveling hazel eyes upon the king of Gondor.

Faramir was surprised to see the rosy blush of Aragorn’s cheeks suddenly fade to a frightened white. The king had actually blanched. In all their trials together, he had never seen the fearless, courageous leader ever falter. In short order, he knew the cause for his lord’s distress. Ashen lips hardly moved as he cleared his throat nervously and then whispered, “I dare not face the Queen like… this.”

Fear panged through Faramir, and a cold rush of horror raced up and down his back. His gooseflesh rose, and his throat was suddenly dry and aching. “Ai, Éowyn…” Through the haze of his mind a single thought came to him, bursting through with a furious bang: he did not want to face the wrath of his lady scorned. There was no other torture that terrible!

The same frightful idea had clearly occurred to Éomer, for the warrior king’s face had turned pale and trembling. The three men sat quietly a moment, images of red-faced wives and stern, chiding voices stampeding through drunken minds. Imagine their horror! The impropriety of it! Gondor’s leaders, the heroes of the War of the Ring, the hope for the future of Middle Earth, drinking themselves into stupors at a grungy tavern!

Éomer’s eye twitched. “You must do this, Gimli. For their sakes. For mine! I must wait until after she retires to return!”

Gimli shook his head vehemently, the great rusty mass of his beard quivering with the abrupt, violent motion. “Me?! I can hardly carry the fool! I doubt he can walk properly–”

“I can walk fine–”

“And it is a long way to go!”

“It is not.”

“Aye, it is so if one needs to drag along a drunken Elf!”

“I can walk!” Legolas stood suddenly and banged his knee on the table. The whole structure shook precariously, narrowly tipping glasses. Drops of ale and wine were knocked from the surfaces of the riled liquid, splashing about. The chair behind him clattered to the dirty floor with a loud bang, directing the company’s dulled attentions to the Elf. Following the seat a moment later was the Elf himself, for the sudden action and the strike of his leg to the table had deprived him of his balance. He struck the floor with a gasp that became a laugh. His face was red as he giggled. “See? I can wal–”

Faramir sighed roughly as he stood and grabbed Legolas’ arm. “This is folly,” snapped the irate ranger. Gently he pulled the laughing Elf to his wobbly feet, wrapping an arm about the archer’s waist. “Let us get him to bed. We are his friends!” Ashamed eyes were averted, heads dropped and faces red in embarrassment. “You surely are not so afraid of your wives…”

“Then you take him, Faramir,” Éomer declared, jabbing a finger at his brother-in-law. “If you can so bravely face my sister’s wrath, then by all means, do so!”

Whatever courage he might have had floundered in that moment. Éowyn’s beautiful face twisted in disgust and disappointment flitted across his mind. He wondered if it was a monster conjured from too much drink and irrational fear, or if the demonic apparition of his wife was a real prediction of the future. He did not care to find out. A thought came to him, though in the muddle of his head he could not be sure how or why he came to such an idea. “Let us draw for it.”

“Draw for it?” Aragorn repeated incredulously. “That is a child’s game.”

“And are we not acting like children?” Faramir weakly jested, unable to keep a facetious smile from his lips. Legolas chuckled at the comment, though the ranger highly doubted the Elf had any concept of what was going on about him. At least, Faramir hoped he was so oblivious. He could hardly stand to entertain the thought of Legolas’ rage should he ever learn of this.

Gimli grumbled, “And where, Master Ranger, do you suppose we might find straws with which to do this?”

Éomer’s eyes were bright with hope that this silly notion might resolve their difficulties. “Perhaps they have a broom. I shall endeavor to find out!” There was such pride and bravado in his voice, as though he was a hero undertaking a valiant quest to seek out the precious fibers that might save them all from imminent peril.

A moment later, Faramir settled the mumbling Legolas onto a chair. Indeed, this filthy tavern had a collection of idle broomsticks and other cleaning paraphernalia. The owner had regarded the young king of Rohan as though he was a stark raving lunatic, but nevertheless he surrendered the needed straw from his unused equipment. Éomer returned, clutching the straws as though his very life depended on it. If Lothíriel was indeed as wrathful as Faramir feared, it very well might.

The straws were broken so that one was much shorter than the other five. Faramir held them in his fist tightly, glancing warily about his friends. Legolas insisted he participate in this stupidity, and the first round of straw-plucking ended with the Elf drawing the short end of the proverbial stick. This, of course, sent the intoxicated prince into another round of boisterous laughter. The men and the Dwarf used his preoccupation with his own luck to run their little game again, and, when the picking was again concluded, Faramir found he was left with the smallest straw.

Of all the foul luck…

“Ai, Elbereth…”

Éowyn’s disapproving eyes tormented him in that moment as he held the disastrous results of his own idea. Her chiding, cold voice filled him like ice water, and he cringed. He should have known better than to trust his cursed fortunes! He had never won this game when he had played it with Boromir in their youth. Never!

Éomer was unable to keep a broad smile from his face. He declared, no small amount of relief in his wavering tone, “It seems you are the one–”

“I do not want to hear it, Éomer.”

There was no more laughter. A deathly silence came over the group as Faramir stood, looking at the innocent stalk in his sweaty palm as though the flimsy piece of straw had condemned him to death or worse. Then he tipped his hand, brushing the thing from his skin as though it was poisonous. There was no choice. He was trapped.

Legolas was pulled into his embrace. The Elf was still quite hysterical with matters beyond the traumatized Faramir’s comprehension, and his musical laughter sounded to the stricken man like a death toll. A heavy quiet remained as Faramir stood, one arm wrapped around Legolas’ waist, the other clenched into a white fist. He looked upon his friends, but they refused to meet his gaze. A man was being sent to his doom. There could be no words to amend such a terror or make better his fate. Nothing could change his luck now.

“This is utterly childish,” muttered Faramir as he turned away from his traitorous comrades. Legolas laid his head tiredly against the man’s shoulder as the two stumbled from the tavern.

The night was chilly, the cold air slamming into the ranger. He nearly stumbled from the force of it, his gooseflesh immediately rising, and he regretted not bringing his cloak. His discomfort lasted but a moment, for the consoling haze of alcohol and exhaustion took him. As he stood there, supporting his drooping friend, the miasma of thought and fear faded, and suddenly all he cared about was getting back home, where a warm bed awaited him.

Legolas was singing as they started walking. Somehow, despite the Elf’s complete lack of coherency, the tune was still quite melodic and lulling. That and his spreading numbness made walking a trying ordeal, and his eyelids were itching to close. They ambled along clumsily, and Faramir found himself grateful that the streets were nearly deserted. He wondered at the time, for surely it must have been quite late, but the sky was so very dark. The moon and stars were lost behind a wall of heavy clouds. How long had they been drinking? Logic had utterly left him, and he was unsettled to say the least that he could not form a conclusion as to the hour. He was beginning to sorely regret agreeing to spend the evening as such.

“Faramir,” came the slurred voice of Legolas. The ranger forced his wandering mind to concentrate on his charge. “I think there is a house in the middle of the road.”

The ranger shook his head and sighed. “You are drunk, Legolas.”

“I am not.”

But the Elf’s denial was lost to him as they proceeded, for, indeed, there was something big and house-shaped ahead. Apparently, even an Elf as tipsy as Legolas presently was could still see and make sense of shadows far better than any mortal. Faramir narrowed his eyes in befuddlement as they neared the obstruction. As the light of the Gate’s torches spread over the area, he realized what this hulking structure was.

It was the side of a building. Men and horses were trying to pull it through the portal, shouting and fumbling. The frame had obviously been constructed outside the city proper, a practice that was not uncommon. Minas Tirith was a grand metropolis, filled with many buildings that lined narrows roads like rows of troops. There was no place to properly build large structures within the city, for space was limited and such processes required room to maneuver large pieces of wood and stone. Typically they would bring the various parts to the proper place and then assemble them, completing the skeletal frame at the site of its final resting place. Many times in the past had he witnessed this simple procedure, commonly done at night when traffic upon the typically congested streets was minimal.

However, the men in charge of this particular effort were obviously inexperienced or less than intelligent, as the frame had been constructed with a girth simply too wide for the expanse of the open gate. They were now trying to conjure up some sort of plan in order to adjust the massive frame so that it might somehow pass through the portal. As it was, the wooden structure was completely blocking both the road and the gate.

Faramir stopped, his jaw coming to hang open limply. Not only was their present course effectively stymied, it was more than evident that it would be quite some time before their route was opened again. Even if these men managed to solve this problem, Faramir could see three more frames lined up and ready behind this one. And should these be moved beyond this gate, it was more than likely their destination was further into the city. The steward and the Elf would be trapped behind this sluggish caravan for the better part of the evening. It would take them hours to reach the Citadel at such a rate.

And there was but one way they might go. Of all the foul luck!

His rage grew hot within him and he found he could not simply accept this unpleasant turn of events. “It seems we have been thwarted,” Legolas said, chuckling merrily. Faramir resisted the urge to box the Elf’s pointy ears as he grabbed the arm of a rushing carpenter.

“How long will it take you to move this?” asked the steward sharply of the winded man.

The carpenter was frantic and dirty, sweating profusely in angry frustration. He lifted his hammer, clearly failing to recognize Faramir as his lord. “Hours, probably. Now move on, scoundrel, I have work to do!” He wretched his arm away and rushed to the gate where the frame was tightly wedged, yelling orders to the other men, leaving Faramir fuming in the street.

“Are you going to let him speak to you like that?” Legolas asked, shaking his head disapprovingly. “Hardly proper, Lord Faramir.” His eyes glowed powerfully bright with mirth. Faramir did not have the patience for this.

“Be quiet, Legolas. You are not helping.”

The Elf pouted. “You did not ask me to.”

Sighing angrily, Faramir pulled the slack body tighter against him. There was but one option, he supposed. They would have to backtrack to the tavern and join the others. Legolas would simply have to wait to retire for the evening. The thought of his warm bed taunted and tantalized him, and he grunted, shoving the alluring thought aside. Fortune was not blessing him this night.

Slowly they walked back down the blackened street. The city was terribly quiet, and cool air smelled sweet and heavy. Faramir was actually quite surprised at the distance they had covered since departing the company of their friends. It had not appeared to be much at the time, but his muddled mind had failed to truly account for all the steps. Now each was a trying venture, as Legolas was growing heavier and dragging his uncooperative feet. Gimli had been right. It truly was a long way to go. His mind began to wander to more pleasant things. His wife. Her kiss. His warm, cozy room and her arms. Vaguely he knew he should have been paying strict attention to where he was going and what landmarks he was passing, but this responsible command from his conscience never breached the wall of his liberated dreams.

So distorted by drink was Faramir that in no time at all he had managed to lose track of where they were. When he returned to himself, the buildings around him did not at all appear familiar. The man stopped, tightening his grip about Legolas, turning bleary eyes around the darkened road. There were so many buildings hunched together on this little path, crowded along the roadside like beggars demanding patronage. This was not a part of Minas Tirith he regularly frequented, and with growing panic, he began to realize they were lost.

A curse fled his lips as he pivoted in the vacant street, glancing around wildly. Names flapped on wooden signs, and they came to race about his jumbled thoughts. Sword and Shield. Soldier’s Sanctum. The Blue Swan Inn. A brothel here, a tavern there. Where am I? Which one is it?

“Legolas,” whispered Faramir, his wide eyes scouring the plethora of dingy buildings for a name he recognized. “Do you remember the name of the tavern?” When the Elf did not answer, he turned his frenzied, annoyed attention to his friend. “Legolas?”

But the Elf had seemingly passed out, his face buried in the warmth of Faramir’s shoulder. The steward sighed, greatly vexed by this all. His irritation swelled within him, and he stood erect and still, trying to think. He should not have had so much to drink. Curse his faulty memory! The Drunken Doxy? Was that the name? The Ranger’s Refuge? No tavern would be christened so dumbly… Though I daresay Aragorn would adore such a place…

My, this is fun.

It was no use. His thoughts were clogged with too much drink, and he could piece together nothing of his random memories. If he had ever bothered to make note of the information he so desperately needed, it had been lost in the merriment of the evening and the stupor of ale.

Faramir stood there for a good few minutes, wondering at this foul situation. He was trapped in this part of the city with no easy means of escape and carting around a drunken Elf. Éowyn’s scolding voice invaded his thoughts again. He imagined her scathing disappointment at his actions. It seemed he would not make it home to her tonight, and she would be most displeased with that. Fiery blue eyes delved straight into his foolish soul, seeking to know the ludicrous desires that had left him bereft of reason. He winced. This was not good.

And, as is the wont of bad situations, it was about to get worse.

Something struck the tip of his nose. Something cold and wet. He jerked, surprised, and his fingers came to wipe the water from his face. Alarmed, he looked up to the abyss of churning clouds overhead. Please, no.

His unspoken imploration went unheeded, as whatever forces that be cursed him yet again. Down came the rain, hard and fast. It took only a breath for the deluge to soak him thoroughly. He cursed loudly as he looked down; there was no one to hear it, so what was the sense in decorum? He felt like screaming, but he would not allow his anger to drive him to that.

Water dripped into his eyes as he glanced frantically around. It was late, cold, and pouring. Now there was no other choice. He would have to find a place for them to stay the night. I am despised. That is the only conclusion. Boromir told me for years that I have naught but foul luck. Finally I admit it. I have pride no longer. Now let me be! “You have certainly proven your point,” muttered the ranger disdainfully. “I hope this pleases you!”

His feet carried him, for his mind was retiring quickly and depriving him of what little of his faculties remained. He tightened his arms around Legolas’ form and sloshed through the muddy streets, his clothes sodden and heavy upon an already fatigued body. He shivered, glancing through the teeming rain at the buildings they passed. His aggravation was mounting by the moment. Why was there not a single inn on this confounded street? He could have sworn he passed one a few moments before…

Finally he spotted a travel lodge. Breathing a sigh of relief, he trudged over to the hulking, dark building, pulling the leaden Legolas along. Grasping the handle to the door, he pulled, expecting it swing open.

Locked.

Swearing, he turned and glared across the street through the sheets of pelting rain. There was another such establishment on the other side. Hope rekindled within him and he struggled to this new destination. Thankfully, this one was accepting business.

He hauled himself inside, wet locks of hair dripping water into his eyes. He took a moment to compose himself, wiping at his face, before glancing about and absorbing their surroundings. It was a small room, without furnishing save a scratched counter and one ramshackle chair. The air was musky and dusty, the odor bothering Faramir’s eyes into watering. It was completely black save for one candle burning feebly. It had consumed most of its wax. Given the desperation of their situation, Faramir decided to swallow his dislike for this place. There was little else they could do.

A man appeared from the shadows. He was rather large and his ruddy face was decidedly ugly. His mouth was crooked, and when he smiled he revealed gaps in his teeth. Bushy eyebrows made his eyes look dark and dangerous. He was a great hulking mass of a man, and Faramir found himself rather intimidated by the other’s sheer bulk.

The innkeeper glanced at Legolas’ slumped form. “He sick?”

It took Faramir’s lethargic mind a moment to formulate some sort of response. “Ah, no, sir. He… just had a bit too much to drink, sir.”

The man’s face scrunched up doubtfully, and a mole on the bottom of his chin protruded hideously. Faramir stifled his grimace. “I don’t want no disease in this place, understand? He better not mess up my room.”

The steward smiled weakly, thoroughly unappreciative of this but finding the alternatives few and far in between. “Of course, not. You have my word,” he assured, trying to force some pleasantness to his tone.

“That’ll be a hundred.”

Faramir’s breath hitched in his throat. “A hun-hundred?”

The man said nothing, narrowing his beady eyes. It was clear he was not joking, though Faramir madly wished that he might be. A thought suddenly occurred to him, and panic left him utterly shaken and chilled. He had no money. Why would he possess any? There was no need for the Steward of Gondor to pay his way.

The panic gave way to anger. “I refuse to pay such a sum. I am your Steward. You will give me a room here.” His tone was stern and commanding. He did not like to flaunt his rank and usually detested the value it put upon his life over others. This man obviously thought to press him as it was more than obvious his options were limited. However, he was tired, wet, cold, and annoyed beyond any sense of the word. He was not about to be swindled as well.

For a moment they stared at each other, as if gauging an enemy’s strengths and weaknesses. Then the man flashed that gruesome smile and gave a cracking laugh that echoed in Faramir’s head most uncomfortably. “You ain’t no Steward. And even if you were, you’d still have to pay.” The innkeeper annunciated the last words for extra emphasis, but all his forceful lips and tongue managed to do was spray spittle across Faramir’s face.

The steward’s visage was a picture of wrath as he wiped the saliva from his cheeks. He stood, fiery and fuming, debating on whether or not to simply turn and leave this place in search of better hospitality. In that moment, however, the thought of roaming about those cold, wet streets was decidedly unappealing. This was his best course of action. But now, knowing that, what could he do? This buffoon could not be reasoned with, and he had no leverage at any rate. His mind churned frantically, desperate to summon forth some sort of plan. Would his reason fail him now? Would he flounder? Would his luck continue to spite him this evening?

He felt Legolas’ hip press against his, and suddenly he realized. Simply because he had no funds did not necessarily mean that Legolas would be so ill-prepared. Excited, he slipped his hand into the pocket of the Elf’s breeches. Much to his joyous disbelief, he felt something cold, hard, and circular.

Steeling his face to an apathetic scowl, he produced the glinting coins. It was not enough, he realized as he glanced at the sum in his palm, but it would have to do. “Seventy-five is what I offer. From the wretched state of this place, I doubt you receive much business. I suggest you take it.”

The man stared at the glinting coins for a moment, and then he returned a hard glare to Faramir’s face. However, the steward remained vehement, his face hard and his eyes betraying nothing. Finally the man acquiesced, accepting the offer with a noncommittal grunt before snatching the money from Faramir’s outstretched hand. “Upstairs. Make sure he don’t get sick up there.” Then he disappeared in the shadows behind the counter.

Once he was alone, Faramir released a relieved sigh and thanked chance that Legolas had had some money. Gathering his sopping, unconscious friend in his arms, he trudged tiredly up the creaking steps. The wood protested loudly, and he idly wondered at its precarious construction. If it should break and he should fall, he would hardly be surprised. It would be only another moment of misfortune this horrid night.

The second floor was as dilapidated and horrible as the first. He just picked a room, certain that all of them were in the same unkempt condition. The quarters were small, with one tiny bed, one wooden chair, and a washbasin. The rain slammed loudly against the windowpane. There was no candle. The room was nearly pitch black.

Faramir sighed as he stepped inside, closing the door securely behind him. His fingers fumbled for the lock as his eyes adjusted, and he was vexed to find there was nothing but air. Fabulous. He supposed he should have expected as much.

He laid Legolas down on the bed. The Elf glowed faintly as was the way of his kind, his chest rising and falling in gentle breathing, his eyes glazed. Faramir did not know if he was sleeping or not, and found this insecurity slightly disturbing. Mindlessly, he went about undoing the draws of Legolas’ soaked jerkin and pulling the dripping garment from his friend’s body. Then he worked on ridding the Elf of his tunic and boots. He was not sure if the Firstborn could catch a chill and become sick, but it was a risk he did not want to take.

The silence became heavy and pressing as he went about these tasks. The patter of the rain was lulling, and his eyes began to close. There was only one bed. This was not what he had had in mind when he had departed the warmth of the tavern. Luck was cruel to him to the very end, it seemed.

There came a sudden draw of breath. Faramir snapped to awareness, slightly startled, and looked to Legolas. The Elf’s eyes were still lost in that daze, but he mumbled softly, “Are you glad I remain?”

Faramir did not know what to say immediately. Was the prince addressing him? Did he even know he was there? Still, the question made something inside him throb in both pride and hurt, and he felt obliged to answer. He leaned close and drew the Elf’s slender hand in his own. “Aye, Legolas. I am very glad.” Then he swiftly pressed his lips to Legolas’ brow.

The smallest hints of a smile graced Legolas’ lips. “Then I will stay.”

Faramir grinned in spite of all that had happened. “Good. Now sleep.”

That seemed to be enough to ward away the remainder of Legolas’ demons, for the Elf visibly relaxed. His eyes remained open, but they were bright and peaceful once more. Faramir had almost forgotten how calming that look was to his heart each and every time he saw it. It was wonderful to have it return.

The rest became a blur. The steward stripped his own sodden tunic and kicked his boots from his feet. He pulled the chair from the corner of the room and braced its back against the door. Then he sank tiredly into it. It was far from comfortable, unforgiving to his back and legs, but he was too tired to care. The intoxicated stupor was finally getting the better of him, and he was willing to oblige to call for sleep. The void rose up and he sank down, hoping oblivion would reach him somewhere in the middle.

Perhaps it had been his bad luck that had made a ruin of this evening. But, in the end, it had also been his good fortune to provide comfort to his dear friend. That was enough to make his trials seem but small grievances. It was all relative, really. He was glad for this disaster, then. He was glad he had been left with the shortest straw.

Silence overtook him, and he smiled in sleepy satisfaction.

But then there came a snort. Soft and unimposing. But then another and another.

Tired eyes peeled back, and he was dragged from the comfort of slumber. It took him a moment to realize what that obnoxious noise was exactly, and when he did, he almost laughed from the utter ridiculousness of it. How was he to sleep with this racket? Why did fate seek to torment him? Why?

The Elf was snoring.

He had not thought it possible, but he knew it was now.

Of all the foul, black, rotten luck!

**THE END**


End file.
